“The irony of commitment is that it’s deeply liberating – in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic, from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life.” – Anne Morriss

Starbucks cups gone wax poetic on my ass.

Someone let their tiny dog take a dump in the hotel elevator but didn’t bother to pick it up. I must have missed the memo because it was the first time in 3 days that I made it to the 8th floor without it stopping to pick up others, proving to be one of the most traumatizing 20 seconds of my life. How could something so tiny unleash such a putrid morsel? It’s like a hot girl who rips an eye-watering fart, it just goes against nature.

I want to watch the movie, Up. Since I’ve heard nothing but rave reviews since it released this past summer, it’s inevitable that I’ll come away with some level of disappointment given the expectations it now has to live up to. The same thing has happened to Tropic Thunder, I Love You Man, and Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants…I mean, what? Given the targeted demographic for The Hangover, I can only imagine what kind of let-down the patrons felt if they had to watched it anytime after its opening weekend. It just happens. Regardless of how great the story/movie/stunts/jokes may really be, your endorsements will prevent it from living up to expectations.

Think about just how terrible this power would be if it applied to everyday life; you recommend anything to a friend for any reason–a tailor, tutor, caterer, hair cutter (?), stripper, beer, restaurant, deoderant–but they always managed to disappoint. Life would be humorously terrible. Social interactions would be limited to empty salutations since I’m pretty sure that 90% of our conversation topics revolve around a guess-what-I-did-no-way-that-sounds-sick-just-like-when-I-did-this model. Even the most cliche of small-talk topics, the weather, would be susceptible to these limitations. We’d be screwed! Not really, but I felt like being melodramatic.

I’m currently writing this from a plane, 35k or so feet up in the air, as I cruise from SF to NYC thanks to Google and Virgin America. Let me tell you, you haven’t lived until you’ve checked email, sent some IMs, wrote a blog, streamed Pandora while leaving it on mute, placed an online bet, AND updated your Facebook status message purely out of novelty/principle. It’s a feeling of freedom that can only be explained by experiencing it, so I highly recommend taking a flight on Virgin Airlines before January 15. Food will taste better and air will smell cleaner, the sun will be brighter, you will lose weight and befriend beautiful people, and your life will never be the same. Now, if there were more than 6 readers of this blog, I’d laugh because some readers may not know how sarcastic I am being…in which case I would have successfully ruined the internet-on-a-plane experience for them. Good thing my audience is limited to whomever I send the link to.

There’s some gnarly turbulence right now, I wish typing could show it as well as handwriting would.

Bringing it back to the old school ‘cuz I’m an old fool who’s so cool….

I’ve been on a Beatles kick lately. In actuality, it’s a Beatles kick-lite, since I’m resorting to Pandora’s Beatles radio station-so I only get ~65% Beatles songs (group + Lennon/Paul/George solo efforts). Either way, it’s some pretty good shit, both lyrically and musically. So what else have I been missing, you ask? Great question. By random happenstance, I found myself watching They Drive by Night (1940) the other night, an old-school reel co-starring (among other actors that my parents would probably recognize), Humphrey Bogart. And, just like with the Beatles, I was thoroughly entertained by the time the credits rolled.

Imagine that. Music three decades old, movies almost 70 years old…I like aged Scotch and will pay the extra $3 for a case of beer that actually tastes good. I opt for steel bicycle frames over the latest carbon fiber craze. Rusty free weights trump their cable/rubberized descendants, worn-in Levis win over my G-Stars. Reruns of Saved by the Bell/Fresh Prince/Full House/Charles in Charge never fail to entertain. I don’t own an iPod nor do I know how to use iTunes. I consider cursive a lost art, much like chivalry. I scoff at Miley (a 16 year old, mind you) as she sings about partying in Hollywood and wearing stilettos, pole-dancing and rubbing herself to the pleasure of ‘tweens and their moms across the world. Oh, and fuck the wildcat, a solid drop-back passer can always win you a football game.

I admire progressive values and open-mindedness when it comes to love, life, religion, and ice cream flavors. So when nostalgia starts kicking in, I’ve decided that finding the optimal balance is the key to happiness and a fulfilling life. How do you find that balance? I have no clue.

In other words, I’ve failed to resolve anything…Imagine that.

I’ve got nearly 25 years on this little guy, but after a few hours of Texas football-watching and trick or treating, we were one in the same: